


Marked and Cuffed

by Maplesyrup



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Established Relationship, F/M, Met Gala, Museum Heist - Freeform, Secret Relationship, formal dress, jewel thief, metropolitan museum of art, sansan, sansan au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: Prompted by mareyshelley on Tumblr: CriminalAU and Secret Relationship - Sansan
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 83





	Marked and Cuffed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mareyshelley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareyshelley/gifts).



> This has been hanging around on Tumblr for a bit so I thought it'd put it here for others to enjoy as well! Edited for clarity, length, grammar, etc., so it's a bit different from what's on tumblr.
> 
> (I wrote this with Sophie and Rory in mind as their characters, but feel free to see whomever you like as Sansa/Sandor!)

* * *

* * *

The first rule of modern thievery? Don’t get caught.

It's stupidly obvious but it's also the easy part. The second rule is much harder to pull off: siphon the barest trickle of attention so that people don’t care who you are anymore. So their eyes wash over you and dismiss you as unimportant and you fade from their egoistic memories like mist.

Sounds ridiculous, but Sansa had it mastered. It was a fine line to walk but after a decade of practice, she could do it with ease. She likened it to an actor preparing to step on stage. You let go of some parts of yourself in favor of letting others bubble to the surface. It was fun, in its way.

She slinked up the red-carpeted stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her black gala gown sparkling enough to meet the theme of 'Midnight' without drawing the paparazzi's risky attention. The front of her gown dipped low enough to warrant glances but no hard stares or come-ons. The train on the gown was pretty but unremarkable, limiting the risk of anyone catching on it, noticing her, and delaying her progress.

Her invitation was a masterpiece of forgery, accepted with nary a second glance and she was almost sorry for it. It would have been nice to frame it and hang it on the wall of her loft in pride of place as her first perfect fabrication. Swallowing the hint of regret, she glided through the throng of people, her blood flush with the first thrill of the night.

Sansa's first professional mark, years ago, was almost a disaster. Margaery had to rescue her from her own hubris as she made a beeline for their mark: a 40 karat red diamond set in a pendant of rose gold and white diamonds; a piece created during the English Renaissance as a supposed gift for Her Majesty Elizabeth Regina. The brilliant necklace hadn't been seen since the queen threw out the courtier who had thought to gift it to her for her Jubilee.

Apparently, even a queen’s ransom in stunning jewels reminded Elizabeth too much of her then-failing health.

Sansa had learned a great deal since that night and was now, finally, trusted again for a solo mark. Margaery was nearby in case she was needed; a tiny earpiece in Sansa’s ear allowed her to stay in communication with Margaery at all times.

She wandered around, grabbing herself a drink from a waiter passing with a tray, and blandly gazed at the art. All of the world's most gorgeous and famous milled around her and she paid them _just_ enough attention in kind, as she was supposed to.

After a suitable amount of time had passed, she began to make her way to the target. Not a case-and-laser-protected set of jewels, however. No, this time it was a live one.

The last surviving Grand Duchess of Saxony—no real power but inherited money aplenty—had been invited solely for the elegant crowd to gawk at the stunning tiara she owned.

It had been made for the last Czarina of Russia, Alexandra Feodorovna, before her tragic demise. In a splendid array of black and smokey blue Russian sapphires—the only ones in the world _—_ it certainly fit the night’s bill, far surpassing even Elizabeth I's necklace. And Sansa had to steal it right from under her nose. Or, head, as the case may be. Her clutch held the fake, two interlocking pieces that would snap into place once she got the real thing off the Duchess.

Sansa was preparing to enact the first step of her plan when a large, firm hand slid around her waist from behind, tugging her into the shadow of a nearby alcove. She gasped but otherwise made no sound. She knew that hand. And to whom it belonged.

_Shit._

She looked up, meeting the steel grey eyes of Sandor Clegane, his lips quirking in a dangerous smile behind a full but neat beard. His hair was pulled back, scars in full view, but it gave him a dangerous edge to all that big, burly sexiness.

She tried for a winning, disarming smile, but he just shook his head with a chuckle, gazing down at her. His eyes narrowed.

_Oh, goddamn it._ Why did he of all people have to be invited to the same event? He leaned down, putting his mouth near her ear.

"Don't struggle and draw attention, Sansa. Wouldn't want to get yourself into trouble." His thick Scottish brogue came through even in a whisper and despite the shiver it caused, she pulled back, tossing her head and pinning him with a defiant glare.

"I'm not scared of your kind of _trouble_ , Sandor." She smirked. "Why don't you do something to _actually_ make me worry?"

He hissed in a breath, pulling her deeper into the shadows and yanking her against his colossal frame. She was more than a head shorter than him, but it had never been a problem for them in the past. She was a creative woman, and he appreciated ingenuity.

He slipped them through a door marked “Employees Only” and into a harshly lit hall that did nothing to diminish his appeal. If anything, the fluorescent lighting took him from dangerous to lethal. He moved closer to her, backing her against the wall, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

Bracing his hands on either side of her, effectively trapping her, he leaned down once more.

"I should pull out my cuffs and take you in right here and now."

Her eyes fluttered as his nose brushed the shell of her ear, the caress incongruent to his low threat. Despite her agitation, she couldn't resist the urge to bite back.

"Is this what you do for fun?" She shot him a scornful look. "Accost innocent women out for a beautiful night of admiring art?"

"There's nothing innocent about you, Ms. Stark." He smiled, slow and feral. "But I like you that way."

Suddenly, she was caught up in his arms, his massive hands roaming her back as he pressed a lush kiss to her lips as they parted on a gasp. His full beard tickled her and she reveled in it, wanting the brush of it far, _far_ lower on her body. She moaned into his mouth and he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his hips. She shivered as he pinned her once more against the wall with his large frame, relishing how wonderfully small she felt in his embrace.

He tore his mouth from hers, planting wet, nipping kisses down her neck to the deep plunge of her gown. Switching paths, he licked from the top of the V of bared skin back up to her collarbone. Growling, he grasped fistfuls of her dress as he sought her ass, making her groan when he squeezed the soft flesh in his firm grip. The sound broke on a whimper as he thrust his pelvis against her, grinding her back harder against the wall as he pressed against her center, finding her most sensitive spot with ease. She pressed against him in turn, silently begging for more.

He moved back up her neck, biting her harder. She mewled at the sting, and he soothed the bite with his tongue, his rumbling moan of sympathy vibrating against her skin. Kissing back up to her ear, he nipped the lobe lightly, chuckling at her little squeak.

"Who's your mark this time, Sansa?" His rasping, deadly voice half full of threat did nothing to dispel her arousal. She growled in frustration, bringing a hand around to grip the hair tied back over his neck and pulling his face away from her.

"Shut up," she hissed, "and do something better with that mouth than ask me stupid questions."

He shook his head. "Who's your mark?" he repeated, stilling entirely as his steel gaze pinned her better than his body could.

Her anger rose swiftly, boiling over, and she wriggled and shoved at him enough to be dropped unceremoniously to her feet. They both breathed hard, staring at each other for a moment before she turned, locating her discarded clutch. Pulling out a small compact mirror, she opened it, checking her neck and cleavage. Nothing lasting, just a few red marks from his beard that would soon fade.

She heard the rattle of handcuffs being pulled from their holster, and a big, beleaguered sigh. "I'm going to ask you one more time, Sansa. Who is your mark?"

She scoffed, tossing the compact into her bag with forced nonchalance. She flipped him off over her shoulder, refusing to look back as she slid from the hallway back into the party.

"Fuck you, Detective Clegane."


End file.
